The Moon's Mistake
by mumbling mice
Summary: A unique and frightening portrayal of the night Fenrir Greyback bit Remus Lupin. Some disturbing imagery-reader discretion advised.


It was a very still night in summer.

It was one of those nights perfect for sitting outside and talking about nothing, treating the cool air like a lounge in the pool. If you listen hard enough, you might hear the flapping wings of a bat, and see its shadow black against the sky, a sky with blue you only see in oil paintings and irises.

It wasn't dark, either. Right now She was hiding behind the clouds, waiting for the shade of blue sky to be just right, but She would come. The enormous form of the moon would soon hang contentedly in the sky to watch Her children with an omnipresent mixture of satisfaction and attentiveness.

If only She could speak to us. What stories she could tell.

Since it was one of those one-in-a-million nights, a young boy had his window wide open as he skimmed through a book on his bed. It was a birthday present from his Aunt Mildred, who didn't visit often but was resourceful enough to know what any young wizard might want. She had given him a copy of _Magic Might: Mythology throughout Wizard History_. It was a thick book, but it was fraught with large print, beautiful watercolor pictures and even some mosaic types, and lyrics to classic songs passed on from generation to generation.

The boy tried to sing the songs sometimes, even though he didn't know how to read music. His mother promised him that she would magically make the notes in mid-air and have them play the sounds, like an enchanted choirmaster. Meanwhile, the boy tried to teach himself, struggling with the lyrics to songs like the American pioneer ballad "Fly Away, Little Owl, Away to My Love in Frisco" and the old Russian children's rhyme "Babushka's Red-Spot Curse".

He was reading the Romanian folklore, which had stories like the one of a reluctant peasant killing a vampire by stabbing it in the heart with his broom handle and flying back to the king is a prize. And there was another, the story about the ridiculously wealthy king who turned out to be a werewolf and fed off of the children of his serfs.

_ There once was a terribly ghastly King, whom we wizards believe may have been the real life ruler King Harald Vârcolac. He would force his servants to conjure plate after plate of exotic foods and gobble it down greedily. He had a bed made out of solid gold, and above the headboard were the heads of his enemies, which were plated in gold with precious crystals stuck in their eye sockets and mouths. He was a cruel and sadistic man._

_ During his the early years of his reign he liked to go hunting drunk in the middle of the night, with his servants dressed up as animals, so he could try hexing them. One day in his alcoholic stupor (he quite liked a strong mead), he rode off into a deep part of the forest, and it is here he was said to have been bitten by an evil werewolf who wanted revenge on him for being so poor to his people. Soon after the King began to crave human flesh, and every full moon he would demand several children be sent up for the villages below to be presented to him on a golden platter, still alive. The child would be locked in the room with the werewolf-King, and he would proceed to torture the child, rip them to shreds, and then devour its flesh. Finally, the peasants began to realize what was happening, and they marched with torches and pitchforks up to the King's castle. He was hanged in the public square, and his body burned._

For a moment, the air hovering outside of the boy's window seemed a little too still. A shiver ran up his spine and he shut the book. He didn't want to read anymore of the book. Besides, his mother would probably be up to kiss him good night soon enough.

The air was so still. It was the sort of air the beast loved. His senses were heightened and he felt so aware and alert. He could hear the crunch of every leaf, the chatter of every voice through every open window.

His lips pulled up past his thirsty, dark crimson and very irritated gums in a hungry, animalistic sort of lust. He hopped the fence with surprisingly swiftness.

"Muggles," he chuckled under his breath. They were so ignorant. It was almost endearing in the most condescending way possible. The way you would find a puppy cute when it does stupid things like ask for it's tummy to be rubbed.

The beast liked to get his own tummy rubbed. It felt so nice. He rolled his head around his neck, imagining little hands with long finger nails dragging themselves across his stomach, ripping out curly little hairs by the roots. He could smell the blood bubble up in tell-tale streaks, like a child's finger paint. That's what it was, after all; a child's finger paint.

The curtains flapped in the playful, idle breeze and teased the beast, flaunting and beckoning him towards an open window. He could hear the sound of a young boy whispering good night to his mother. The beast couldn't help but let a satisfied shudder run down his scab-ridden spine. The innocent tinkling of a child's soprano was so teasing. He crawled closer and smelled the boy's scent.

The boy snuggled underneath his covers and tried to squeeze his eyes shut. Despite the Never- Melting Candle his mother had left on his bedside table, and despite the fact she had pushed his scraggly brown hair up past his forehead and gave him a warm kiss goodnight, the boy still felt very nervous. He knew he shouldn't have been reading that book before bed; it gave him awful nightmares. Wizards had a bloody and brutal history; the book was filled with boggarts and banshees and dragons and… werewolves. Just like the one the boy had read about just moments earlier.

A cool breeze entered the room and tickled his shoulders. The boy shivered and pulled his coverlet up to his chin.

"_Once more he stepped into the street;_

_And to his lips again_

_Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane;_"

Out of the silence came a whispered poem. It was muttered, almost growled, and it felt as if it were coming from deep within the boy's belly. He at first thought it to be a complete figment of his imagination, because of how ethereal and guttural it was. But the boy could have never imagined such an eerie tone. It was neither man nor woman; it seemed to be more like a beast. Yet as eerie as it was… it was mesmerizing. And that's what frightened the boy the most.

He pulled the coverlet off his face and listened.

"_And ere he blew three notes (such sweet_

_Soft notes as yet musician's cunning_

_Never gave the enraptured air)_"

Yes, the boy decided it was most certainly real, and that it was drifting in through his window.

"_There was a rustling, that seemed like a bustling_

_Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling,_

_Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering,_

_Little hands clapping and little tongues chattering,_"

The boy scooted off of his bed and neared towards the window at an eerily constant and ever-hesitant pace.

"_And, like fowls in a farmyard when barley is scattering,_

_Out came the children running._

_All the little boys and girls,_

_With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls,_

_And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls,_"

The boy's small fingers curled around the edges of the windowsill, and he peered down into the darkness to find the source of the melody.

"_Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after_

_The wonderful music with shouting and laughter._"

A pair of yellowed eyes was the first things the boy saw. They bored into his skull with a drill-like determination and seemed to almost penetrate his mind. They called to him with a wink. They mesmerized him with an ominous twinkle.

The boy climbed out of the window and toppled down on the wet grass.

The beast looked down out him, and now the boy could get a better look.

Never before had the boy encountered such an entity. In its presence, his world held the bizarre, careless posture of a dream-land in memory; hazy and strange… yet it all seems to make perfect sense.

It did make sense to the boy, following the beast. It made complete and perfect sense to wander behind the lumbering figure, pose as his makeshift shadow, void of any thought and only there to tag along.

When the boy would grow up to be a man, he would look back and think how hazy and strange it was that fateful night, but then he would think, _Ah, but it made complete and perfect sense_.

The beast, on the other hand, saw it not as hazy and strange, but gritty and exciting. This was what he lived for. This was the type of special night he spent all the other nights dreaming about, preparing for, and lusting after.

However, he too thought it made complete and perfect sense. But unlike his younger counterpart, he would not look back in years to come and think how strange it was. He would think how gritty it was. How exciting it was. How much he loved it.

He really did.

The beast hummed his melody all the way to an abandoned playground. Weeds had become squatters, and crowded themselves in tight corners. Rust crept steadily up the metal bars. A sense of dull stillness permeated through the air. Nothing moved except for a single swing, which rocked back and forth as if the ghost of a lazy child sat upon it.

Behind Her cotton curtains, the moon had been watching. She had been slowly, slowly creeping out to get a better look. She was very protective of Her children, and when She saw the boy in harm's way, She thought She was doing what was best by bursting out into the murky blue sky. It was in vain.

The beast fed off of her brilliance. He saturated himself in and writhed in sadistic pleasure. Yes… it was beginning. The lustful vengeance against mankind was cracking in his bones, snapping in his back. It elongated his jaw and pulled at his ears with strong hands. The beast screamed in pleasure.

Hatred and pain were the best aphrodisiac.

The boy could not move. He could not even scream. It was as if his larynx were being squeezed by a tight grip. Quick breaths of horror wheezed in and out of his lungs. He stared, unblinking, at the disgusting vision. This utterly naked creature, twisting and lurching before him. Bones swam in all different directions underneath the stretch skin. Sweat mixed with blood trickled down the creature's thighs. The screams it emitted sounded as if they were from the very depths of hell. He had no idea a living being could be so hateful and so horrible.

The beast had reached the climax of its transformation, and toppled to the ground in exhaust. To the boy, it looked like an enormous shag rug, heaped on the earthen floor. The chest moved up and down, taking in deep pants of breath. The boy thought how terrible it was that the thing was capable of even breathing.

He didn't want to think it was anything at all like him.

Before he knew it, the mass crept closer and closer to him. A pair of crazed, hell-bent yellow eyes peered at him through the darkness.

He still couldn't run.

The wind picked up and tousled his hair. Strands stuck to the involuntary tears on his cheeks. The Moon tried to tell him to move! Run! See the wind? Listen to the wind!

But he couldn't listen. He couldn't run. The beast had him right where it wanted him. Trapped… frightened… confused… alone. The beast would make sure the boy would remain that way for the rest of his life. He would make the boy would be just like him.

The beast lunged.


End file.
